Integra Hellsing went to bed in her bedroom at Hellsing on a completely normal night, and woke to gray metal walls the next time she opened her eyes. She sat up, looking around blearily. Then, realizing that something wasn't right, she rubbed her eyes and looked around again, only to find out that she wasn't wearing her glasses. The world was blurry, and she was forced to squint at the nondescript gray walls; steel studs were the only decorations, if you could call them that.
There were only three pieces of furniture in the room. There was the metal table she was seated at, the icy metal chair she was seated in, and an uninhabited metal chair directly across from her. She tried to push her chair back from the table in order to stand, but found to her astonishment that it was bolted to the floor. A quick examination proved that the table, and presumably the other chair, was bolted to the floor as well.
Looking up at the ceiling, she saw that it was made of smooth poured concrete, the same as the floor beneath her bare feet. The lights in the room came from fluorescent bulbs behind sheets of glass or plastic—there was no way of climbing up there to check, and without her glasses she could barely make out specifics. The panes were deeply set into the concrete; it was clear that the builders had set the bulbs and their protective casings into the concrete itself, and then poured more over it to make sure that no one could remove the face. She wondered briefly how they managed to change the light bulbs.
She remained seated at the metal table, crossing her arms. She was chilly, sitting in this entirely metal room with only a nightgown between her skin and the cold steel. Granted, the gown had long sleeves and it fell to her ankles, but the fabric was thin and it was made for humid summer nights, not icy metal rooms. She was cold-natured as it was, anyway.
It was clear to her that she'd been kidnapped, although how or why escaped her. It had to have been an inside job, but even so—how did her captor sneak past Alucard and Walter? The two men had never failed her before. Who wanted her so badly that they'd risk the ancient vampire's wrath to get to her? And, how did she not wake up between her bedroom and here, as light a sleeper as she was? Had she been drugged, or did her captors have a grasp of magic? As many questions as she had, she couldn't think of a single answer.
She wished she had her glasses. She wished she had a dressing gown to slip into. Or at least some socks. She frowned, deciding that she'd been in this place long enough. It was time to call Alucard to come get her. She'd get some answers from the people she found, and then she'd let her vampire rip them to shreds for daring to steal her from her bed and drag her out to God-knows-where.
She called out to Alucard through their master-servant bond, fully expecting a reply. When three or four seconds passed without him checking in, she called him again, growing agitated. Where was he? He still didn't check in, and she realized with a start that she hadn't really felt anything from him since she woke. How long had it been now, fifteen minutes? Thirty? Or maybe only ten?
Now she really was getting agitated. She planned to go and check the door next, once she managed to slide out from behind the bolted chair. It would be stupid of her to be sitting here, with the door to the room open the entire time. But before she could even move towards the door, she heard a lock tumbler clicking and it opened.
A man stepped in, glancing at her before immediately turning and shutting the metal door behind him; she heard the lock fall back into place, but he wisely tested it by pushing against it with his hand. The door, on this side of the room at least, had no keyhole or locking mechanism. Why had this man locked himself in with her? Was it her captor, or just a servant? He might be in here to kill her. She immediately was on her guard, her arms tensing against her chest.
The man was rather handsome, actually. He was very casually dressed; his blue jeans had a tear in the knee and were frayed around the hem, and his red flannel shirt was rolled up to his elbows, showing off tanned, hairy forearms. He wore shoddy boots that were clearly very old; a gold wedding band glinted on one finger. She noted that he was missing the second finger of his right hand, severed cleanly at the knuckle.
His brown hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it. He had a five o'clock shadow, and he scratched his stubbly neck as he slid into the seat opposite her. He beamed at her, his smile two gleaming rows of straight white teeth. His eyes were nearly the same shade as hers, and they stared piercingly into her own. For a moment, they silently sized each other up. The man relaxed in his chair, tilting his head slightly as he chuckled, breaking the tension with the easygoing sound.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. What an honor it is." He spoke with American Southern accent, his dialect drawing out his words until Hellsing became "Hail-sin'" and honor became "on-er". Integra gave him her best glare, the one usually reserved for getting her way with the Round Table Knights.
"Where am I?" she spat ferociously. They didn't call her "Ice Queen" for nothing. This is ridiculous. Why can't I call Alucard? What's going on? I don't even know how long I was unconscious. What if it's been days? She tried to keep such thoughts at bay and focused instead on the man smiling pleasantly at her from across the table.
"At the moment, you're in my interrogation room." He paused, lips thinning as he pressed them together. "It gets chilly in here," he said with concern in his tone, brow knitting. "Can I get you a blanket, or maybe some hot coffee?"
"What you can get me is answers." His smile looked frozen for a moment, but he chuckled again and waved in the air, as though the gesture were dispersing her words.
"Calm down there, little lady," he laughed. "Believe you me: there'll be more than enough answers in this place to do us both." She gritted her teeth, hands fisting at his light tone.
"I'll give you one chance to be a proper gentleman. Point me in the direction of the nearest exit. I'm ready to go home." He laughed again, covering his mouth as he stared jovially at her.
"Ain't nobody ever got out of this place… alive, that is," he informed her. "Even I'll be shot in the back of the head one day; I know too much."
"Who are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. His smile was beginning to get on her nerves. He leaned back in the chair, and she could tell that he was crossing his legs beneath the table. He crossed his arms as well, mimicking her position, and gazed down his nose at her.
"I'm the guy that's gonna kill you." He scratched said nose, letting the sentence sink in for a moment before continuing. "But my name's Wayne Grady. My folks call me Little Wayne, but you can call me Mr. Wayne, if you please."
"Little Wayne," Integra repeated incredulously, a hint of revulsion in her voice. Was this man serious? He was treating this as if it were a mere friendly conversation, instead of a talk between a hostage and her supposed future killer. His voice was beginning to grate on her nerves with its careless nature. Perhaps he enjoyed being in charge, but she was ready to take some control of her own.
"Yes, ma'am," he nodded. "Born and bred in Georgia, in the good ol' U-S of A. I'm a fan of the Braves and the Packers. My home has a shrine to Kyle Busch." Packers? Kyle Busch? This man… it sounded almost like he was speaking a second language. Integra had no idea what he meant, or who he was referring to.
"Why am I here, Mr. Grady?" she finally asked, shaking her head to clear it. "Surely you wouldn't have me here if it didn't serve some ulterior motive of yours." Wayne shook his head, pursing his lips.
"Not me, ma'am," he corrected. "My boss. I'm just the interrogator, jailer, and executioner. Another hardworking Joe making a quick buck, that's all. My boss is the one that asks for the answers; it's just my job to give him what he wants."
"Who is your boss? What does he want with me, then?"
"My boss is not your concern right now, I'm afraid," he replied cordially. "You've got bigger problems. And he wants answers, just like I said. And I'll get them." He leaned back further in the metal chair, as far as he could with the thing bolted to the floor. "You see, you're in quite the predicament, Miss Hellsing. It ain't a question of "Will I die?" for you. That's a fragment of a question. It's better to say "When will I die?" or maybe "How will I die?". That's more specific. "Who's gonna kill me" is a pretty silly question, since you're looking at him, but sometimes silly questions are acceptable, too."
"I'm not asking any of those things, because I will not die."
"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "In that case, I'll just hop on into what I came in here for. Normally, we just put you straight in your cell, but I wanted to have a chance to lay the ground rules with you. I ain't had a chance to read over your file yet, but I can tell you are the kind of lady that likes to make waves in the pool. I don't particularly care for those sorts of people, but you also strike me as the kind of woman who understands the need for order."
"Ground rules?" she repeated quietly, seething with anger. "You dare to order me around, Mr. Grady?" The man shrugged again, before leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the table.
"You can either follow them, or not. I don't care no way. But your quality of living depends on how well you behave. I ain't gonna have no upstarts in my interrogation room. I ain't no zookeeper. What you act like is what you become."
"I see," Integra answered slowly, wishing she had her gun. This man would look a lot better with a bullet in between his eyes. The man nodded solemnly, his eyes becoming serious. He wasn't laughing anymore.
"Y'all British folks are supposed to be all manners and good graces," he said thoughtfully. "What do they call it, gen-i-al-ity? So you might be good after all. In any case, listen carefully, cause I'm only gonna say this once. I ain't one to repeat myself; it's a waste of time and good air."
"I'm listening," Integra responded sarcastically, one brow arching. It wasn't as effectual without her glasses, and up close the man's features had become too blurry to see well. She couldn't gage his reactions like she usually could. He must have seen her squinting, because he made a strange sound and fished around in the front pocket of his shirt. After a moment, he pulled something out and slid it across the table to her, the object nearly skidding off the metal surface and onto the floor. Feeling on the metal table, she realized that he had given her glasses. And not just any glasses—this shape, this form… They were her glasses.
"I forgot I had them. My men got a'holt of them when they got you, just in case you had to be reading something during interrogation. My orders was to bring everything you'd use on a daily basis," he explained. "Them dumbasses forgot your other clothes, though."
"I see," Integra said again, slipping her glasses on. Her world came into focus properly for the first time and she saw that he was older than she first thought. Now she could see fine lines and slight wrinkles on his face, and he looked more forty-five and less twenty-five. She blinked at him and he waited a second before holding up one finger.
"Let's start with rule number one," he enunciated slowly. "I ask a question, you answer the question. Even if you can't manage a "Yes, sir" or "No, sir", and only make a sound, you still damn better answer my question. It's rude to ignore others, and I can't tell if you hear me or not if you ain't answering."
He caught her questioning glance and grinned. "Sometimes people pass out during interrogation. I gotta know if you can still hear me, otherwise I think my methods might be ineffective and I gotta get rough."
"Rough?" Integra asked, not wanting to know the answer, but feeling that it had to be asked nonetheless. He nodded pointedly and held up a second finger.
"Yes, ma'am. That brings me on to rule numero dos. You get what you give." Integra stared at him blankly and he cleared his throat. "I start you out pretty good, compared to other places. They might just give you a bucket and some hay. I got y'all a bed, toilet, three square meals a day..."he trailed off, looking pleased. "You oughta thank me for that."
"Really?" Integra sneered. "I ought to thank you?" His gaze turned dark at the sarcasm.
"I'd change that attitude if I were you. I can give you a bucket and some hay, just like that," he snapped his fingers. "You be nice and polite, answer my questions, don't cause no trouble, and you can have all your little privileges." He smiled and held up the hand that was missing a finger. "On the other hand…. Be a disrespectful little bitch, and I'll make sure you'll be begging to die in less than a week."
Integra glared stonily at him. This time, his smile was frigid and his eyes glinted with a cruel light. "Do you understand me?" When she didn't respond, the smile widened. "You aren't stupid, Miss Hellsing. I know you remember rule number one. Now… do you understand me?"
"Yes, I do," she replied, each word ground out from between her teeth. He nodded and rose, sliding out from under the table and walking to the door. He looked back at her, expression pensive.
"You know, I think I'll stick you with that other one," he said musingly. "I'm afraid that's one of the downsides to small living—we don't have enough cells for everyone to have their own. But this fella's been solo since he got here. It's time he had someone to talk to. They usually go insane on their own; that makes interrogating them nigh on impossible, so we try to avoid it." He didn't expect any reply from her, as he turned from her to the door and knocked once on the metal. The door opened with a clank and he spoke to someone on the other side of the door. Integra couldn't see who it was; he was blocking the opening with his body, and the door was barely cracked as it was.
"We'll put her with that mackerel snapper in Block C." He listened to a voice answering him, his head bent low. Integra leaned forward slightly, but she was too far away to hear the individual words; it all ran together as a buzz, but it sounded masculine. She wondered if there were any females wherever she was, or if the place was populated with males only. Perhaps the only females were prisoners. And he'd spoken as if there were other prisoners…. How many? Who were they? She wondered if she'd ever see them. She also felt a small tremor of trepidation at the thought of being stuck in a cell with a stranger, but there was nothing she could do about that. She really was, as Mr. Wayne said, in a predicament.
The other person on the opposite side of the door stopped speaking and Wayne looked back at her, his brow knitting and meeting over his nose. He stared at her a long moment, his eyes distant. Then, he seemed to decide on something and turned back to whomever was on the other side of the door.
"Even if she does, what can they do? It ain't like they can collaborate to escape or anything. She ain't linked with that monster anymore so he can't do his thing, neither. It'll be fine. If anything, it might give him some incentive to speak." He listened again. "Not necessarily. We can always offer to get her out of there in exchange for talking. Either way, we can make it work in our favor." He nodded, then turned to her and inclined his head in farewell. "We'll meet each other soon enough, Integra Hellsing. You be good now," he added with a wink as he closed the door.
The moment he was gone, she got out of the chair. She was fuming, furious at the demeaning way he spoke to her, and at the situation as a whole. Who the hell did he think he was?! She was Integra Hellsing, heiress! She began to pace, brain working furiously as she struggled to come up with some escape plan. When the door opened again, she might be able to overpower whoever was on the other side, but it was a gamble…. She had barely made one turn about the room before she heard something strange.
Tilting her head, she listened to the faint hissing. By the time she realized what it was, the world spun. She became dizzy and sank to her knees, coughing before passing out cold on the hard concrete, her head thumping onto her arm as she hit the ground.